I wasn’t going to turn down a brew. It could be my last for a while. I piled in the sugar in case I needed an energy boost some time soon. I lifted the shiny glass jug from its hotplate and poured myself a generous shot of its contents.
‘Do you know where you are, Nick?’
I reached for the condensed milk. ‘Not a clue.’
‘Peredelkino. A very nice place, steeped in history. It’s known as the writers’ village. Many famous Russians have lived here, Russians who have changed the world with their words and their wisdom. Do you admire our great Russian writers, Nick?’
I stirred the milk into my coffee. It was so thick with sugar I could stand the spoon up in it. ‘I read when I can.’
‘Tarkovsky? Pasternak? Fadeyev?’
I raised an eyebrow. I knew he was taking the piss. ‘The guy who said Stalin was the greatest humanitarian the world has ever known? Good writer, but I wouldn’t trust his character references, would you?’
I didn’t give a fuck what he thought, but I was quite pleased that he was suddenly sitting up and paying attention.
‘We all need friends in high places, Nick.’ He waved his hand at a huge picture window. ‘Every one of these great writers had a dacha here, you know. They’re buried here too. Peredelkino is featured in a le Carré novel — The Russia House.’
I finished stirring. ‘Is that so?’
‘There’s a lot of history in these dachas. If only they had ears.’ A thought struck him. ‘Well, maybe some of them did have ears during the Soviet era, yes?’
The triple-glazed windows slightly warped the view, but I knew that if I had to leg it, I’d head for the door I’d come through and straight towards the swings and the slide. Then into the tree line, even though I didn’t know what was on the other side of it. I’d go and see what the crows were up to.
The small man flicked through the pages of his newspaper with one hand, as he motioned with the other for me to sit opposite him.
‘What are you reading now, Nick?’
‘Dostoevsky.’ I gave him my best poker face. ‘Crime and Punishment. But I’ve got a feeling I won’t be finishing it any time soon.’
‘When you do, you will find knowledge and enlightenment. I came to books late, but …’ He closed the paper and raised his hands. ‘… as we all know, Nick, knowledge — of whatever kind — is power.’
I sat there with the brew. He was playing with me, enjoying the moment, even though he wasn’t showing it. Not a hint of a smile crossed his face. He was like Arnie in Terminator mode.
‘Thanks for the tip. But isn’t it time you introduced yourself? And told me what you want?’
He waved my questions away. ‘How’s Anna? Is she enjoying North Africa? I watch her every day. It’s a little warmer there, I suspect.’
If he was trying to impress me, he’d succeeded.
I put my mug down on the white marble. ‘She in trouble?’ I kept my voice even. It was pointless getting sparked up. I’d know the answer soon enough.
‘This is not about Anna, Nick. No, this is about another of your women.’
My head pounded. I was starting to get pissed off. If he was going to hurt me or offer me something — I didn’t really care which — I just wanted him to get on with it.
He dragged his seat backwards, turned and pulled one of the photos from the steel board. A well-manicured hand spun it towards me. Then he settled back, putting a bit of distance between himself and the table.
A woman and a young boy cuddled one another on the garden swings.
She’d changed the colour of her hair; it had blonde highlights now, and was a lot longer, well past her shoulders.
‘She’s still beautiful.’
He nodded. ‘Of course. And you knew her husband. Knew him well. What was his name?’
‘Montgomery. We called him Mong.’
He nodded, satisfied.
‘So you’re Frank.’
‘Francis. But until we get to know each other better, you may call me Mr Timis.’
‘Not very Ukrainian.’
‘It puts you Westerners at ease.’
‘What’s happened to Tracy? Is she OK? Or is it the boy?’
‘Stefan.’
‘Your son?’
‘Yes, he’s my son. Look closer — you will see.’
I did. The boy’s eyes were fixed on the camera as if he was interrogating it. The only difference between father and son was the grin on the boy’s face. Frank probably hoped that in a few years’ time the whole smiling thing would just run its course, and Stefan would turn into his father’s son.
His eyes suddenly burnt, and I knew playtime was over. ‘I have a problem. I need your help. Someone has stolen them from me. And I want you to get them back.’
14
‘Have you heard from them? Has anyone contacted you?’
He leant forward, keeping my gaze. He was still remarkably cool, even for a machine. Which was probably why he managed to be whatever he was. ‘No. If they had, I wouldn’t need you.’
I gestured at the wound on the back of my head. ‘Is this what passes for a golden handshake round here? I could have been killed. And so could that lad who bled all over your car seat.’
Frank’s face was stone. ‘I had to know if you are … capable. I only know what you used to do, not if you can still do it. What is it you Brits say — to see if you can still cut some mustard?’
He said it without a trace of a smile. The emotion gene had bypassed Mr T.
‘What about the lad I shot? Are his mustard-cutting days over?’
‘He’ll have a fine life. He’ll get drunk and tell stories of how he fought off five assassins. With the money I’m going to pay him, the women will hang on every word. You’ve done him a very big favour.’ He waved his hand dismissively. ‘Don’t worry about him. Worry instead about my son and his mother. You have certain responsibilities towards her. Or did she lie to me? This is not just personal for me, Nick — it is for you, too, would you not say?’
I took a swig of the brew and gave him a nod. ‘What do you know?’
‘Only that they were taken four days ago, along with their bodyguard. The pirates seized the yacht about a hundred kilometres west of the Seychelles. I’ll pay them whatever they want, Nick. Just find them, and broker the deal.’
It was only a couple of days since four Americans had been killed on their yacht during a bungled rescue operation, after being hijacked off the Horn of Africa. In South East Asia this would have been pretty routine. Crew and passengers were killed and thrown overboard; the ships and their contents were seized. But this was a bit of a turn-up for the Somalis. As far as they were concerned, the people were the prize.
I didn’t know if Frank knew about the US deaths, but either way I’d have to start to manage his expectations. Right now they seemed pretty high, considering he knew fuck-all about what had happened.
‘You sure nobody’s contacted you, even indirectly?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Then how do you know the yacht’s been taken?’
‘The crew was dumped. The yacht was taken with the three of them still aboard. The crew arrived back in Moscow this morning. You will go and see them when we’ve finished here.’
‘The BG, the bodyguard — is he good?’
‘He’s British, like you. He will be doing what he can. I know it. But I will have no further need of him once all this is over. Stefan and his mother — I want them back. I don’t care what it costs.’
I looked at the picture again. ‘This isn’t as clear-cut as you might think. If you pay what the pirates ask, you may put them in more danger. If you don’t bargain, they’ll think you’re loaded. They’ll take your money and then they’ll sell them on to another clan and the whole process will start all over again. Or rival clans could go to war over them. Either way, you’ll never get them back.’